The Eolasse Chronicles: Rebellion
by Lady of the Rebel Angels
Summary: Boromir was a noble warrior of Gondor, Leanor a lady prone to vanity and flirtation. Their love would begin a chain of events that would change Middle Earth forever, and begin the story of Eolasse, a warrior maiden and rebellious daughter of Rohan.
1. Raven and Scarlet

Note: This is the first chapter in an extremely long series. It is my favorite of all the fanfiction I've written, and this is just the beginning. It's sort of an introduction before Eolasse arrives. Later on it there will be an abundance of battle scenes, and more characters you will recognize. Please Review! I do not own the Lord of the Rings or any of the characters or places you will recognize.

The Eolasse Chronicles

Part One: Rebellion

Chronicling the romance of Leanor ap Beregond and Boromir ap Denethor, the ending of the glory days of Gondor, the coming of Eolasse of Rohan to Minas Tirith, and the part played by Bronwynne in the War of the Ring.

His hair was black. Beautiful raven black, shorn to his shoulders. His eyes were eagle-sharp and grey, taking in all his surroundings, and you could tell just from the way he walked that he was a warrior.

If that didn't tip you off, the scars, several cross hatching his hands and the long one that ran down his cheek, would have.

He was slim and tall, and moved with that warrior-grace she'd come to expect in most men.

His face wasn't pretty like an elf lords': his features were chisled, with high cheekbones and a square jaw, and when he smiled you could see the ghosts of a million grins written across his face. It was like the sun coming through clouds.

Oh, I know they sound like fools, but we are all fools in love, aren't we?

From that first day he smiled at her, she knew their fates intertwined into the future like a lover's embrace.

Leanor ap Beregond knew she was in love. She also knew she would rather die than admit it to another soul.

This is their story.

Boromir glanced up at the gleaming stones of Minas Tirith, and felt pride blossom in his heart. Beautiful white city, he thought, cursed is the day i am forced to leave you.

"Brother!" Came a joyful shout from down the street.

Boromir turned to see Faramir making his way towards him, his yet unscarred face gleaming with joy, accompanied by Morholt, Boromir's closest friend, and a soldier like himself.

"Are you not ready to watch the festival, o moon-touched one?" Morholt teased, punching Boromir companionably on the arm

"I'll have your head for that!" Boromir cried in mock anger, smacking Morholt upside the head, "No man calls me a woman! I have forgotten, though. You have yet to make you first kill! It would be dishonorable of me to kill a mere child."

Morholt's ears reddened. "I have too!" he exclaimed, "Last summer, the same as you, steward-boy!"

Boromir grimaced at the reminder of that first battle. "And the stones of the walls were reddened with blood," he intoned the first line of the traditional start to every warrior's saga.

"You'd best hurry, whether you be men or not!" Faramir called, as he had already started up the street. He was grinning, a jeering tone to his voice.

Morholt and Boromir raced up the street, chasing Faramir, although the younger man won, as he knew he would. He had always been more fleet-footed than his brother.

They neared the center of the city, the music and laughter floated down the streets, and citizens of Gondor passed, bright in their festival wear.

The three young men mounted the steps of the terrace, the better to observe the passing crowd. As they passed through the crowd, a cheer seemed to swell from the people of Minas Tirith.

"Boromir!" they cried, "Boromir, the Sword arm of Gondor!"

Boromir raised his right arm into the air, the arm still wrapped in a bandage from the most recent skirmish in Ithilien. He acknowledged their cheers, and leapt onto the rim of a nearby fountain.

"Gondor!" he called, his voice ringing across the stone courtyard. "Glorious Gondor! Long have we withstood the enemy's attacks! And long shall we prevail!" And his people cheered him.

As the hubbub died down, he turned and jumped back to the ground.

"I wish i could do that." Morholt muttered, "This man can't even walk down a street without being mobbed by a people brimming with adoration."

Boromir wasn't paying him any attention. "Who is that?" He asked, and Morholt and Faramir turned to see who or what could have caused such a change in Boromir's manner. There was an awe struck tone to Boromir's voice that he rarely adopted.

"that," Morholt guffawed, "Is Beregond, captain of the Tower Guard."

"I know your tastes may run to grisled soldiers," Boromir replied, a strange intensity in his voice, "but i was referring to the lovely creature beside him."

A smile played over Leanor's full, blood-colored lips, and she tilted her face up to the benevolently glowing sun.

Leanor had always been beautiful. Her clear, creamy complexion, so striking in contrast to the silky straight, night colored locks that fell in cascades down her back, was the object of poetry, most of it hideous, and her large, blue eyes, which reflected the brilliant hues of the sky, with their fringing of extravagant dark lashes, were lovely enough to break a man's heart.

Which they hadn't. The part of her that had broken men's hearts were her perfectly formed lips as they delivered the words of her cruel wit. Those words had driven men to jump off bridges, or drive their shining blades into their aching hearts.

She was dangerously beautiful. And she knew it.

As her eyes swept the surroundings, they caught on the handsome, well-dressed young captain who was staring at her.

She flashed him a flirtatious smile, and asked him playfully, "Well, steward-son, are you to stand there all day, or will you walk with me?"

"Gladly, lady, if i have your consent." Boromir replied gallantly.

Leanor laughed once more, an achingly lovely sound. She could tell that Boromir was used to unending adoration. "Which you haven't. Why should i abandon my duties here to walk with you, Boromir ap Denethor? Give me a reason, and mayhap i shall grant you my consent."

"Only that it would cause me great pleasure, were you to honor me with your company. But i would not deprive you of your merriment, lady."

She tossed her proud head, and gave him a full, ripe smile. Boromir ached to kiss those lips.

"Mayhap i do not live to give you, as you phrase it, pleasure." Her eyes danced with mirth at the confusion and embarassment that was spreading over Boromir's face.

"Leanor." that was Beregond, who surveyed Boromir critically, his dark eyes slighty accusing. "Lord Boromir. You have not met my daughter?"

"No, i have not yet had that pleasure." Boromir replied, stumbling over his words slightly. He had never had the ease with words so gifted to his younger brother.

"May i then present my daughter, Leanor. Leanor, the Lords Boromir and Faramir, the captain Morholt of Gondor."

Leanor nodded graciously, her gaze sliding over the faces of the three young men. She extended one graceful white hand.

"We are honored to make your aquaintence, Lady." Faramir said politely, bowing over Leanor's pale fingers. Boromir remembered his manners and followed his brother's example.

"Until next we meet." Leanor replied, turning from them, "My lords. Faramir." She allowed her flirtatious gaze to linger over Faramir's thoughtful, unscarred face and kind grey eyes, and then turned and wound her way gracefully through the crowd.

Boromir felt the first seeds of jealousy begin to grow in his heart.


	2. Broken Glass Butterflies

I remember the day Leanor first set eyes on Boromir son of Denethor.

She came home with a strange, dreamy expression in her eyes, and continued to dream throughout that evening, as full of sighs and longing looks as any lovesick chit i ever knew.

"Come now." I remember saying, as i helped her to undress before bed, "And tell me of him."

She looked up at me with surprise.

"I wasn't born yestermorn, my lady." I chided her. "It's writ plainly across your face that you're lost over a man."

"Bronwynne." She snapped, "what would you know of such things?"

I remember the curtain seeming to fall across my mind. She is speaking of my leg, and the puckered scars along my face. Of course, in her youth and bloom, she cannot percieve how anyone may love a disfigured monster such as i.

"As you wish, lady." I replied, "And if that will be all i'll be leaving now."

"Oh, Bronwynne!" She cries, "I did not mean that. Come back. I shall tell you of him. You are my dearest friend in the world. I should not have spoken so harshly." She twists her pretty mouth into a pout.

My lady can be like this sometimes; first cruel and quick as cut glass and then light and lovely as a butterfly.

I sigh, and seat myself beside her on the bed. "Aye, you're a good girl. I spoil you. Tell me of him."

She leans against me as if she were a child once more.

"He is tall, and brave, and beautiful. Surely there is no man on this earth that is his equal. His eyes pierce like a hawk's his smile is such that i should lose my self entirely in it if i should let myself..." She sighs, a long, lovesick noise.

I stroke her hair and wait for her to finish.

"but father would never..."

I shake my head knowingly. "Hush thyself now. You shall only work yourself into a fit of melancholy. You should sleep, love, so as to be fresh in the morning. Sweet dreams."

"They shall only be sweet if he is in them." her voice is self-pitying.

"Then I wish you both joy in dreams." I reply. I sigh softly, and smooth my skirt.

"Were you ever in love, Bronwynne?" She asks. Her blue eyes scrutinize me carefully in case I should lie to her.

"Oh, aye." I opt for truth, "I was in love." I sound rather lovesick myself at this point. "He was a good man."

"A lord? A dashing captain? A traveling musician?" She smiles, eyes dancing as she tries to get me to tell her the story.

I giggle, surprising myself in the girlishness of the noise. "Nay, he was..." i trail off, realizing how much i almost just revealed. "A good man." I repeat, a little wistfully.

"What happened to him?" She asks, her gaze solemn.

"He and i were seperated." I cannot hide the bitterness in my voice. "But now is no time for such grief-ridden stories." I stand, and wince a little at the pain in my leg.

"It is your leg, isn't it?" Leanor asks, ever observant.

"Yes, after all these years, still it pains me."

"I shall have Reanne prepare a hot soak with lavendar oil for you." She says, satisfied that she has solved my problem, at least temporarily.

I smile, blow out her candle, and leave her alone in her moonlit room.


	3. The Poet and the Warrior

Note: another chapter! No reviews yet… but I've got my fingers crossed. Sorry this one's kind of short, I've been busy lately.

Boromir sat, brooding, by his window, staring out at the pale sliver of the moon. Even the beauty of the starlit world seemed to grow dim beside his memories of Leanor.

"What troubles you, brother?" Asked faramir's voice from across the room.

Boromir was silent.

"You are thinking of Lady Leanor, aren't you?" Faramir inquired kindly, as ever, able to read his brother's thoughts like an open book.

"Why is it," Boromir exploded suddenly, "that the words that stir the hearts of men to fight and die for their land, have so little effect on the hearts of women? Are they so cold?"

Faramir surveyed his brother thoughtfully. He had never realized Boromir had a romantic streak. "Surely, the hearts of men and women differ greatly." He replied carefully.

"And why is it," Boromir exclaimed, "that the words written so clearly on my heart are so difficult to set down on paper?"

"Ah." Faramir laughed suddenly. He stood, walked over and surveyed Boromir's attempts at that very action. "Your poetry is..."

"Terrible, i know." Boromir answered miserably.

"It does need work." Faramir agreed.

"Swords I can master. Horses, too. Spears and bows are no problem. Why then do words elude me so?"

"Mayhap," faramir suggested, "you are too impatient. You wish to rush forth like a charging army and take your prize. You must be... subtle. Surprising."

"Like an ambush?" Boromir asked, sitting up a little straighter.

"Maybe that wasn't the best metaphor." Faramir muttered, "What I'm saying is that love is nothing like war."

"Yes, it is." Boromir argued, "in both, there is something I want. And in both, I am prepared to slay any enemies who step in my way."

"That attitude will get you nowhere. You will have to slaughter half of Gondor to reach your goal, if you approach it that way. Leanor already knows you are a great warrior. all of Gondor knows that. You must show her that you are more than just a soldier. That you value her more than just a prize from war."

"I do!" Boromir exclaimed passionately, "She means more to me than all the world. Surely you must see that!"

"I do, brother. It is her you must convince. Which means..." Faramir surveyed his older brother critically, "that you need to work on your poetry."

Boromir groaned.


	4. Seductive Shadows

Leanor looked up at the window, puzzled. she was sure she had not left it open. And yet, there it was, wide open, with the curtains blowing in the evening breeze, bringing the smells of people and stone and the open air market below her window, like spiced meat and over ripe fruit.

She walked over and reached for the latch. She caught sight of the folded bit of paper weighted down to her windowsill.

Slowly, she reached for it, unfolded it and read with a half formed smile staining her lips.

Boromir paced the courtyard, his dark cloak swirling around him and turning him into a thing of shadow and sharp planes in the moonlight.

The noise behind him was soft, like the docile step of a yearling fawn. He turned.

Leanor stepped from the shadows. She glowed with a dark beauty, her hair floating like a veil of night around the ivory angles of her face, her lips almost black in the night.

He stepped towards her, and took her in his arms and kissed those full, alluring, blood-colored lips.

She wrapped her slender arms, glimmering white in the moonlight with an underside of seductive shadow, around his neck.

When they broke apart, the taste of her lips, like a promise, lingered on his own.

All of Faramir's carefully prepared speeches flew from his head on wings of gossamer dreams, and since he had nothing else to do with his mouth, he kissed her again.

She laughed as they broke apart once more, and he stroked the dark locks from her ivory skin, fingers caressing her neck softly.

"Leanor." he whispered fervently.

"Boromir." She replied, laughing at him even then. Her lips were slightly swollen from their kisses in their mocking caress of a smile.

"I love you." He murmered, and pulled her tighter into his arms, his passion like wildfire, like bloodlust, devouring him.

"I have not seen him for three days!" Leanor stormed angrily, "Does he not care for me?"

She sat down, deflated, in a pile of silk and tissue and pearl-embroidered bodice spread over her bed. Her lips trembled with the sadness that came from the realization that perhaps not every man in the world was desperately in love with her.

"Come now, it cannot be that bad." Bronwynne hushed, sitting beside her. "Have you not seen him? Have you had no word from him?"

"I saw his brother." Leanor said petulantly, playing at the pearl necklace wrapped around her slender throat. "He wished me good day, and remarked upon how lovely I looked."

"Nothing else?"

"Oh." Leanor reached inside her cream colored bodice and withdrew a bit of folded paper. "He gave me this letter. I have not looked at it yet."

"Mayhap it is from your lord, then." Bronwynne said cheerfully, "Go on, lets have a peek."

Leanor slowly unfolded it, and her countenance brightened as soon as she looked upon it. A ripe smile spread across her lovely lips, and she jumped up and twirled about the room, clutching the letter to her chest for all the world like a child.

She turned to Bronwynne, her brilliant blue eyes bright with happiness, and deposited the letter in Bronwynne's lap.

"Read it!" she sang, and then dropped into a nearby chair, threw her lovely head back and laughed, the sound almost savage. "Oh, can there be any wording sweeter than his?" her voice was almost mocking.

Bronwynne read, the steward's son's sweet words and fervent promises flowing like water over her, nipping at the edges of her scars. _You had that once._ She shuddered, and banished the thought from her mind, folding the paper carefully into smaller and smaller squares. _No. Begone._

"He is very bold." Bronwynne commented, knowing very well that her disaproval should only fuel Leanor's resolve. "Will you reply, as he begs you to?"

Leanor cocked her head thoughtfully. "Nay." she replied at last, "I shall not. Let him linger, answerless, for a few days yet. If still he is true to me, i shall honor him with a reply. Perhaps."

Bronwynne shook her head sadly. "Your playfullness will lead you to despair, lady."

Leanor laughed. "So you always tell me, but it has yet to happen."


End file.
